Who Will Weep for the Loss of the Lives of Black Women and Girls?

 I look down at my hands and they are covered in blood, and there is blood on my clothes. And I don’t know where the blood is coming from. My heart beats wildly in my chest. Whose blood is this? I wonder. Then I wake up. I’m in my room. There is no blood. I was dreaming. The nightmare has ended. But my breathing is heavy. And I can’t slow down the pounding in my chest even though I’m wide awake. The feeling follows me throughout the day.

My heart feels heavy—like it’s weighted down with a cement block tossed into the ocean. No matter how much I try, I can't seem to lift my spirits. I see Her bloodied body pop up in my news feed. I am startled, and then I quickly press hide. And then I am angry: angry at the insensitive asshole who took the picture and posted it, and angry that I didn’t report it to Facebook for being offensive. I guess I was shocked that the photo was even there.

Jessica Hampton

A young woman is dead. She's dead because a man felt entitled. She's dead because she said no. She's dead because he stabbed her in broad daylight, on a train while people watched. She's dead because people didn't try and intervene. They live streamed the savage attack, and posted photos of her bloodied dead body on social media before her family was even notified. News reports say the family found out via social media. Her name was Jessica Hampton She was 25 and the mother of a young daughter.

Pamela Johnson

This story really bothers me. I don’t know if it’s because of the callousness of not only the killer, but the bystanders as well. I don’t if it’s because it happened in the middle of the day, or because it’s the third senseless killing of a Black woman in Chicago in a little over a month. There was 32 year-old Pamela Johnson who was killed fleeing would be robbers. She was hit by a truck. There was 49 year-old Yvonne Nelson who was exiting Starbucks and took a bullet to the chest that wasn't meant for her. And now this. I’m a Black woman; I live in Chicago. And I’m afraid.

 Yvonne Nelson

Is my anxiety because these women were killed in the city where I live? A city plagued by violence. That’s part of it for sure. But I also experienced similiar angst when 16 year-old Amy Inita Joyner-Francis died after being jumped in the bathroom at her high school in Delaware, and again just recently when police found the badly decomposed body of 40-year-old Lyntell Washington in a ditch in Louisana. 

Amy Inita Joyner-Francis

The deaths of these women sit with me. They stay with me when the media move on. They remind me of our fragile existence as Black women and girls and our never-ending struggle to find peace in a place in that too often tries to render us invisible or devalues us if we are seen at all.

Lyntell Washington

 There is very little love for the Black woman and girl when we are living, so I read these stories and I wonder who will weep for the loss of the lives of Black women and girls?

Father’s Day Blues

photo courtesy of freejazzlessons.com

I spent most of Father’s Day putting out flowers for my mother. And not because my mother is the father-figure in my life. We’re just late planting this year. Since my mother is no long able to plant, I plant flowers for her on the side of the house so that when she looks out the window, she can see something beautiful.

It was me, the dirt and my thoughts on this early Sunday morning. The hot sun heating up my back as I worked.  And since it was Father’s Day, I thought a lot about my father as I sifted the earth between my fingers. My father died more than 20 years ago. And I still miss his presence in my life. I dug into the recesses of my mind of memories of my father—the man I called “Daddy”.

Though I spent time with my father, I can’t say that I knew my father well. Unlike my siblings who lived in the house with my father pre divorce, I don’t have Daddy stories of him being at home.  My stories are scattered across the landscape of my mind: the time I ate the foam from the top of his car; him taking me to buy a bed and a TV; going fishing and catching his fishing rod in a tree.  What I remember most about my father was his easy-going nature. He was slow to smile not because he was angry, but because he liked to take his time.

My parents divorced. My father remarried, and my siblings and I did not interact much with his side of the family. When he passed away, that pretty much ended what little interaction we had. I only saw my father when he came to visit. Sometimes he would come by the house and other times he would take me and my oldest niece out. I guess we were a package deal because when her father picked her up, I tagged along, too.

His death was incredibly hard. I mourned what we had, and what we would never have. I grieved because I had never known a pain that could cut so deep.  My heart hemorrhaged the day of his funeral and I fainted. No one that close to me had died.  Three of my four grandparents were deceased by the time I was born, and my paternal grandmother and an older brother died when I was too young to understand death. But I was fully grown by the time my father left this world and took a piece of me with him.

Father’s Day was the only holiday I actually spent with my father. My sisters and I would get food and gifts and hang out at his house. So, between my aunt’s funeral and the holiday, I was doing quite a bit of reflecting.  You see, last weekend, I sat in a church full of people singing the praises of a woman I didn’t know, but should have. She was my father’s only living sibling and my aunt.  I had not seen her since his funeral.

I had actually thought about my aunt from time to time over the years because she could have filled in some of the missing pieces about my father. But I never reached out—not because I didn’t want to, I just forgot, and time got away from me. I didn’t even know she was sick. I found out she died when my cousin posted the funeral arrangements on my timeline on Facebook.

The ache from his absence will never go away. But I am forever grateful for the time I had with him. And I know that he’s with me every day. I have his same easy-going nature (most of the time), and when I look at my hands I see his—the oval shaped nails and the visible green veins running through my hands. Because of my father I was able to go to under grad without any student loans because he paid for my tuition at a private university.

So, yea Father’s Day gives me the Blues, but only because I’m missin’ a man I know loved me—My Daddy.

Cooking With Love

Saturday I had some things to do. I was piddling around and let time get away from me. I needed to be somewhere by 10:00 am, and it was close to 9:00. My mother lives in the apartment upstairs from me, so I called and asked her if she wanted something to eat. Normally she likes something simple like coffee and toast, cottage cheese and peaches or a sausage patty between two pieces of bread. Nothing time consuming. Nothing I can’t handle. But today she wants scrambled eggs, grits, sausage patty and coffee.

Photo courtesy of Pinterest

It's 9:30 by the time I get myself together.  I can tell her I have somewhere to go, and ask what she wants to eat until I get back. But I don't. Full disclaimer: my mother is spoiled, and at 88, this is the way it’s going to be. Every day that I have with her is a blessing because many of my friends have lost one or both of their parents. So, even though being a caretaker has its challenges, I’m thankful that my mother is in fairly good health and in her right mind, and that I (along with her other children, grand children and great grands) are able to care for her.

In the grand scheme of things, these are the things that are important. I won't miss the meeting; I'll just be a little late. So, I take out what I need to make the breakfast that she wants, and I know that if I mess it up, she’s not going to eat it. See, in her day, my mother was an exceptional cook.  

Never the huggy-huggy, kissy –kissy type mother, the way she showed love was through food. My mother made everything from scratch, and she made whatever our hearts desired. So, we were spoiled, too. My middle sister and I did not like lemon flavoring in cake, so she made two cakes—one with lemon and one with vanilla. I don’t think I’ve ever told my mother that I bargained pieces of seven-up pound cake in junior high to keep the bullies at bay. I kept one piece of the melt-in-your-mouth cake wrapped in waxed paper for myself, and the other one I doled out to keep the means girls off my ass. 

My mother had four girls. Two of us cook; two of us don’t. I am one of the latter, too. And even though I don’t share my mother’s skill in the kitchen, I did pay attention when I would be in the kitchen while she was cooking.  She always gave two pieces of advice: cook with love and take your time.

Well, time is not on my side this morning, but I’m going to make her a breakfast (prayerfully) to her liking. I take out everything I need: instant grits, butter, milk, eggs and sausage.  I can work wonders with some instant grits. The key to good grits is consistency, and my mother is the Goldilocks of Grits—not too thick and not too thin. She wants them just right.  Adding milk and butter makes them creamy—just like we had when I was a child. The only difference being my mother didn’t use instant grits.

I put a lid on the pot to keep the grits warm. I roll the sausage around in my hand and flatten it out and place it in the pan on medium heat. As the sausage cooks, I crack two eggs add some seasoning salt, pepper and a capful of milk. This makes the eggs fluffy like she likes them. The sausage is done.  I put the coffee on. The grits have thickened a bit, so I add a tad bit more milk.

I spoon the perfectly scrambled eggs onto the plate, then the grits and the sausage.  Everything looks good, if I have to say so myself, that is until I look at the coffee. It looks like light brown water. What did I do? I don't drink coffee, but I've made it before. I take my mother her plate and tell her I need to make some more coffee. I look at the clock. It's 9:50. 

I pour the coffee out and start over-- twice! I'm getting frustrated. Then I figure out what I'm doing wrong. The coffee brews and when it's done, I pour it in the cup and add cream and sugar. When I walk into her room to take her, her coffee, her plate is empty. "Thank you so much. That was good." I smile to myself.  I did as I was taught: I cooked with love and it turned out just fine. Yea, I’m late for my meeting, but I’m right on time for what matters most.

Black Girl Magic in Real Time

It begins on an early Sunday afternoon when my flight lands in Phoenix, Arizona. I am waiting for my luggage when I hear it—the unmistakable voices of Black women followed by laughter--not loud and obnoxious, but the rich laughter of women on the verge of an adventure. Without really knowing, I know we are probably headed to the same destination—the Sedona Resort and Spa.

I am right. The women on the Shuttle (except for one) are all headed to the same place. We are on a Southwest Journey going to Sedona to spend a few days then traveling by train to Santa Fe, New Mexico for the second leg of our trip. We are part of the Literary Sisters, a group founded by Ruth Bridges, which brings women together from all over the United States who share a love a of reading and traveling. Two authors, Phyllis Dixon, Down Home Blues, and Raynetta Manees, All For Love—The Superstar’s Lady join us to discuss their books.

The women in this group come from all walks of life. And there is something special about traveling with them. We share cultural experiences which bond us. We make jokes or just talk about a multitude of issues and there is a nod of understanding without having to explain ourselves. There is a Sunday dinner kind of comfort. What I especially like is that we are who we are—unashamedly and unapologetically Black women. This is not an easy feat in a world that does not always respect women and girls, and people of color—and we are both.

And while we may share the same race and gender, our lived experiences differ which make for lively conversation. We are thought provoking; we are naughty; we are funny. We are educated. We are talented. We are gorgeous. We are wise . . . and the list goes on. It is a trip filled with fun and laughter from beginning to end!

When 30+ African-American women converge on one place, that place is never the same! After the initial shock of seeing so many of us together, the cats give the people back their tongues and a thousand and one questions come tumbling out, Where are you from? What’s the occasion? What’s the last good book you read? What are you reading now? And no matter where we go, we have questions of our own for the tour guides. They need to know their stuff. Many of us have done our homework before we’ve come. We are a force to be reckoned with no doubt.

There is a hash tag, #blackgirlmagic# which celebrates all of the ways Black women and girls continue to thrive in a world set against us. I read many of the stories associated with the blackgirlmagic hash tag, and it’s wonderful to read these stories. But what’s even better, is to be in the room and watch blackgirlmagic unfold. That is what happened in Sedona and Santa Fe. We brought the magic to every place we showed up, and we also shared that magic with each other.

Over dinner, or during plane rides and train rides, we gather and talk about everything under the sun. We share stories; we laugh. And we learn. We leave richer than we came, and many of us will come back again. We create blackgirlmagic in real time. 

What about you? Do you believe in magic? Tell us about your magical experience in the comment section.

Today I Am Thankful

Author's note: We spend a great deal of time complaining, worrying and regretting which can cast shadows over our blessings. Today I am taking the time to look beyond the clouds directly into the sun that is pouring into my life. Today I am squinting at the brightness of it all. Today I am feeling the warmth, and I'm thankful.
 

Today someone’s eyes closed—

Never to open in this life time again

Today my eyes are open

And for that I am thankful

Today someone is battling pain—

Mental, physical, emotional anguish

Today I woke in my right mind—pain free

And for that I am thankful

Today someone is out on the street with no place to go

Today I woke up safe and in my own bed

And for that I am thankful

Today someone is hungry with nothing to eat

Today I felt the rumbling in my belly

And I had food to quell it

And for that I am thankful

Today some is alone

 Someone is afraid

Someone feels uncared for and unworthy

Today through thought and action

I felt the love of family and friends

Today someone somewhere is struggling

With something

Today I am not that someone

And for that I am thankful

Did I leave anything out? What are you thankful for?

Post Mother’s Day Musings

The food is put away, and the last guests are gone. Another Mother’s Day done. My mother had a great Mother’s Day. A simple woman, she doesn’t ask for much. She wants to see our faces. She likes cards (with money in them) and flowers.  The table is filled with vases of flowers, and the cards are tucked under her pillow for later reading.

Mother’s Day is celebrated the second Sunday in May to honor the women who are mothers. It is the 4^th highest grossing holiday. An article posted on CNBC Business News Financial website estimated spending for Mother’s Day  in 2010 at $14.88 billion. We don’t mess around when it comes to our Mamas.

Mother’s Day also serves as a reminder to women like me who are not mothers that we don’t quite measure up because we are not members of the Mothers’ Club. We still live under the notion that every woman should be a mother. Yes, there are honorary awards for the “other” mothers in our lives, but the top awards go to Mothers. Even “bad” mothers get a plug on Mother’s Day. 

It’s not to say that mothers don’t deserve recognition; they most definitely do. Parenting is a difficult job, and not for the faint of heart. Every woman that can be a mother should be a mother we are told. But membership should require more than a functioning uterus. And we should recognize that many of us love celebrating mothers, the holiday is not a joyous one for everyone. 

While many people love Mother’s Day, there are those who loath it. My neighbor was sitting out on her porch, and I wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. She asked me if I had another joke. At first I didn’t get it, then it dawned on me. None of her children or grandchildren had even bothered to visit her for the day. My sister and another neighbor took her plates so she’d have something to eat.

For every Happy Mother’s Day uttered with good intention, there are countless women struggling with the holiday for any number of reasons: some are fighting infertility, some have mothers who have passed away, some are the mothers of children who have passed away, and some are the children of mothers who were the carriers for their children being here and nothing more.  And some children, like my neighbor’s, don’t honor their parents.

What’s especially ironic about the Mother’s Day hoopla is the history behind it. The founder of the holiday as we know it in the United States was not a mother, and rallied against the commercialization of the original intent of Mother’s Day.  In the 1850s Ann Reeves Jarvis set up Mother’s Day Work Clubs to improve sanitary conditions, reduce infant mortality and later help wounded soldiers al civil war. She later created a Mother’s Friendship Day. 

After Anne Reeves Jarvis passed away, her daughter Anna Jarvis organized the first formal Mother’s Day in 1908 to honor her mother. It was a small event celebrated in churches in her hometown. Jarvis wrote to clergy men, politicians and educators encouraging them to recognize the day. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson declared the first official Mother’s Day. Its popularity grew, and  retailers seized the moment by selling greeting cards and flowers to honor mothers. 

Jarvis hated what Mother’s Day had become, and spent the rest of her life fighting against the holiday. She never married nor had children. So, it’s funny because those of us outside the club can take solace in the fact, that the founder of Mother’s Day was an outsider, too. 

What are your thoughts on mothers and/or Mother’s Day? Please feel free to share in the comment section.